Gekkani
by LavenderBleu
Summary: Things are distorted when seen through eyes of moonlight. Hisoka POV Flashback, noncon, MurxHis


Author's Notes: This story was hosted here a few years back, before the NC-17 story ban; I've brought it back because I think the M rating covers it just fine. Mature conent, but not overly explicit.

Warnings: Non-con.

I needed to remember. I suspected so before and now I know that I was right. Knowing who hurt me, knowing what he did, why I died such a senseless death…yes, it helps to know. Now I can shroud myself in cold, righteous anger instead of vague resentment and self-pity. I have focus now. Drive. Purpose. Confusion….

He hurt me that night. A lot, and for no logical reason that I've ever seen. To listen to him, it almost seems like my fault, but I didn't mean to watch him kill that woman. Some things are just too grotesquely fascinating to look away from. Murder is one of those things.

I couldn't sleep. That's why I was outside. I couldn't sleep because my mother was thinking too loudly, which meant that she couldn't sleep either. I was always able to hear my mother's thoughts above everyone else's, even though I rarely saw her. I think that's why she was afraid of me. At least she always seemed afraid of something, and fear is a very loud emotion. So that's why I was outside that night. There was a breeze and it helped drown out the sounds of my mother's thoughts. It was a cool breeze, doubly so when he stripped off my yukata and forced me onto the dew-soaked grass. He stood over me, outlined in moonlight. Everyone else will tell you he looks like an angel. Not so. Dressed in white and washed in moonglow, he looked like a statue carved out of ivory, something not of this world. No angel ever had eyes like those, burnished silver orbs that can seek out and lay bare a person's soul. Nothing holy ever had eyes like Muraki Kazutaka.

I remember being afraid. Petrified. Unable to move, not even when he touched me. His fingertips burned my chest while my back and legs still froze in the wet grass. He saw me shiver and stretched out my own yukata on the lawn, shifting me onto it with gentle hands. Thoughtful, huh? No, it wasn't. In the end, the only purpose it served was to ensure that nothing of mine came away unstained.

His clothes were quickly laid aside until he was just as naked as I was. I thought this would level the playing field a bit, but then I realized that I was the only one who was suffering from compromised modesty. He still held all the cards, mocking my helplessness with a predator's assured smile. The irony was that I wasn't helpless and we both knew it. He wasn't restraining me. I could've fought back, at least, but his clever fingers and tongue knew just what to do to ensure that I stayed put. He teased me in places I didn't know could be teased, drawing wanton reactions from innocent things like licking my wrist or nibbling the crook of my elbow. They were places that people unthinkingly touch or brush against all the time. Places I would never be able to forget again. I wanted to close my eyes, but he wouldn't let me. Instead, he stared at my face, holding my gaze, watching all the expressions I wanted so desperately to control. Even when he kissed me, slipping his tongue inside my mouth, we continued to stare at each other.

At least one of us was enjoying this. The proof of that was pressed warmly against my thigh as he leaned over me, trailing bites down my neck. It was quiet, except for our laboured breathing. Too quiet, I realized. I couldn't sense him at all. I should've been glad that he kept his mind to himself while his fingers slowly invaded my body, but morbid curiosity made me seek him out. It was like falling into a void. I could sense his consciousness all around, like a river held back by a dam, but I could feel nothing of it. It was disturbing.

Lost in that train of thought, I wasn't prepared for the shock when he started to enter me. It was a burning pain at first, searing me from this inside out, and I bit my tongue to hold back a cry. He noticed, and leaned down to taste the blood. My legs were splayed widely on either side of his - I was too short for him to place them over his shoulders - and his hands ran smoothly along my thighs, counterpoint to the rhythm that his tongue and hips had found. It felt good. Too good. The kind of feeling that's so good you know it must be wrong. And still I couldn't close my eyes.

He stretched out an arm, retrieving the knife he had used on his victim and cleaning it on the grass. I must have looked confused, because he smiled at me again. It was not a reassuring smile. I thought he was going to kill me and I braced myself for the blow, but it was his own finger that he sliced. I stared wide-eyed at the trailing blood. He wasn't going to kill me, then. It was going to be much worse than that.

Though his hips were stilled, he was still buried deep inside of me when his bloody finger began to trace patterns across my skin. I suppose he found the intimacy amusing. The pain grew in intensity as the curse took shape. It burned, but not like the touch of fire. It was like alcohol on an open wound, harsh, melting chemicals poured over raw nerve endings. I imagined that I could hear my skin sizzling over my screams.

By the time he finished, I was sobbing silently, open eyes swollen and puffy from crying. My voice was gone, but the pain was slowly fading. It would be over soon. Wouldn't it? He slipped out of me then, turning me over onto my stomach. The cotton of my yukata was like sandpaper on oversensitized skin. I didn't have time to think before he plunged in again, thrusting with none of the gentleness he'd shown before, ripping apart what was left of my insides. I felt his weight on my back, cool breath in my hair. It was a different kind of pain than the marks he left on me, almost a welcome change. There were no tears left to shed as he took me, no cries left in my throat when I came, ruining the garment beneath me.

With a chaste kiss to my cheek, he pulled back and stepped away, dressing quickly. His familiar smile grew just a bit wider as he politely bowed to me. "May we meet again someday, my precious," he called over his shoulder, and was gone. I closed my eyes.

I still dream about that night. I wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. They all think it's because of what he did to me, to my body. It isn't. I could've lived with that. I could have come to terms with the fact that he raped, abused, and eventually killed me. What I can't deal with, what no one must ever know, is that for just a few brief moments, he made me like it. Made me want it. That's why I hate him. That's why I worry so for Tsuzuki. He can handle the physical advances, but Muraki is slowly twisting his mind inside out. I can feel it. Be careful, Tsuzuki. I can't let him take you too.


End file.
